


What you call an addiction, I call my sanity

by ofCloudlessClimesandStarrySkies



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Canon, F/M, Intimacy, Meg needs her smoke break, Sam and Meg looking for purgatory Dean, Slow burn Sam/Meg, Smoking, each chapter's a vignette, season 7 divergence, tagging is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofCloudlessClimesandStarrySkies/pseuds/ofCloudlessClimesandStarrySkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't like the way he looks at her. Like she could be something more than the bitch who ruined his life.</p><p>(Between season 7 and 8, a popular plot line where Sam keeps Meg from Crowley and they work together)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They're in on a month of searching for ways to pop open purgatory. Sam needs his brother like he needs oxygen, and Meg...she's tired of not having anyone to watch her back. So here they are. Outside some diner in Carolina, and the demon too old for her borrowed skin starts to feel the itch to run. She's never been the type to settle well.  
Her fingers hold the cigarette like it's a gun, and every drag is closer to clicking the safety off and blowing away any poor sap stupid enough to stand in the firing line.  
Sam is a sap, but he's not stupid. Meg can acknowledge that. Well 1 out of 2 is close enough so she's aware she could destroy him.  
"You smoked when you possessed me too." He remarks, hands in his pockets, oversized shoulders rolled in. Like he's trying to make himself small, small as she feels right now, she wonders if he does that a lot. If standing out feels dangerous so he forces that staggering presence down, even though he could run the entire world easily.  
"They don't call it a habit for nothing, hotshot." Her crimson painted lips play at a smile that doesn't say 'wolf' for once. "Ok but...can you even get addicted to things? Wouldn't it be whatever skin you're wearing?" Sam asks, rolling his eyes at her usual brand of snark. "Look. I'm out here for a smoke break, I didn't plan on discussing the logistics of demon addictions rates, or baring my tainted little soul today." The line of her mouth flattens in irritation and...caution. Her walls begin to go up. The comfortable feeling of the vapors in her lungs mingling with the essence of who (what) she is, dissipates. The Winchester huffs sharply, brow furrowed in the way of a man who studies things, trying to comprehend their clockwork. Meg doesn't like knowing that he probably could, no, /would/ spill her secrets, or worse, that given a sweet word or two she'd sing like a damn canary voluntarily. "Stop." She barks. "Stop what?" His eyes are almost kind, ready to really listen and she hates him for it.  
"Looking at me like I'm your next project." The half finished cigarette crushed under her boot, and she turns on her heel. Back towards that junker he insists they drive.  
Sam's lips start to move like he may form words in response, but chokes them down, squares his shoulders back to imposing magnitudes, and follows her. This song is not done yet. She will not run, as interestingly enough, her taste for menthols is outmatched by a tired boy king who's lost his way. Just like he will not speak to the things he dreams of late at night, her name resting on his tongue, closest thing he knows to a prayer.


	2. Trust (or lack thereof)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! So I took an unplanned hiatus from writing but recently I woke up and my block was mostly gone. This drabble is a verse I enjoy, so I'll be updating with little snippets occasionally when I'm not working on other stuff.

They sleep in separate rooms to begin with. Meg doesn’t care about the extra charge on the credit cards faker than Crowley’s dick, she doesn’t trust Sam enough to rest with him around. The rumour of demons not needing sleep was true, but with a skull full of eons worth of memories, even she needed meditation. That’s all it was. Becoming vegetative for a couple hours at a time so she wouldn’t turn in to a slobbering, half cocked beast not unlike the hounds she used to command.  
Sam doesn’t trust her either, why would he? She’s a bitch, selfish and twisted in ways he knows too well. Not that he sleeps much anyway, the colourful, near lucid pictures that drown him every time he shuts his eyes are a pretty huge deterrent. Jess, Dean, Lucifer in the cage, Castiel, Bobby, his father’s venomous words, his mother burning on the ceiling, more homicide, taste of brimstone and bile sitting heavy on his palette as he consistently wakes up in cold sweats. He refuses to let her see this. How broken he truly is. So at night, when they aren’t driving aimlessly or chopping down beast after beast in hopes of finding the key to monster paradise, they turn in. Two different rooms, two different beds, and two sets of hands soaked in blood no amount of washing will turn clean.

~*~

One day, during a particularly disgusting run in with ghouls, she saves his life. No questions asked, no snide comment, just hacking in to the fucker’s head with a silver blade as he watches with a moderate amount of surprise. "What? Someone had to." She shrugs off his shock and turns on her heel, as if she makes a routine of keeping him from harm.

They clean off at a nearby convenience store and are enjoying the southern charm of a shitty dive bar, because Meg’s insisting he owes her a drink. ('Saved your ass, didn't I Jolly Green?') “Don’t worry, you don’t have to talk to me. Or even look at me. I know how it pains you.” She drawls out with enough bitter taste to leave Sam questioning why it’s inspiring guilt. “Meg…stop.” He eventually replies, voice strained around the rim of his beer bottle. To his surprise, she does. Sipping at her spiced rum, she doesn’t bother him for the rest of the night, save the occasional jab when the glittery street walkers and doe eyed college students shamelessly stare at him like he’s a 10 dollar value meal. “Guess you can’t help it that you’re a regular Adonis.” Meg purrs as they arrive back at the motel around 11:30. Sam sputters, tanned cheeks taking on a reddened hue. “Good to know I can still push your buttons, Winchester.” "Ha ha."

~*~

The next town they stop in when they catch wind of something that's ripping out hearts is small, only a handful of a population. Meg doesn't trust places like this. Dwellers of one horse have a good memory for faces, and little patience for liars. But she's with Sam, who's all earnest and gentle giant charm, the kind of guy old gossipmongers love. He sweet talks the middle aged woman running the small B 'n' B, the only place to stay mind you, and she's instantly convinced that he and Meg are a couple. "Oh, I've just the thing for you two, lots of privacy." 'Annie' croons, grinning knowingly. The demon bites back laughter, and a weird feeling she can't quite place, Sam swallows down his explanations, and they smile, and nod. For the first time since that bus stop all those years ago, there's no wall to separate them as they rest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, the time got away from me. But here I am, getting this story (and hopefully my others) back on its feet.  
> Hope you enjoy!

It’s a queen sized bed. One, meaning they’ll have to share. This unsettles Sam more than he wants to admit. The length of his body pressed up against Meg’s like maybe they are a couple… He used to love that kind of long term touch. To hold someone in his arms, settle in to the rhythm of their breathing, of their pulse. He read an article once, about how when animals aren’t nursed enough as babies, they sometimes lick their owners fingers to try and compensate. Begs the question of whether or not this is a similar situation. Is he just so starved for affection, like he has been his whole life, that he’ll melt every time someone throws him a scrap? It’s embarrassing, troubling… But the hunter is too tired to berate himself now. So instead, he takes one side, watches her take the other, and finally, sleep clouds his eyes. 

~*~

The hunt for the werewolf is over in a few days, stupid thing couldn’t cover its tracks properly, but instead of immediately moving on, Meg suggests they visit the archives at the library. She knows Sam’s getting antsy, that he worries about finding a way to get Dean back, before it isn’t an option anymore. So she brings him back to his element, research of course, and they dive in to tome after tome of occult information. The writings on the leviathan are few and far between, and purgatory is not accurately defined by human scholars, as they discover. “Sometimes I think it’s useless.” His voice breaks quietly through their rhythm of wordless work. “Reading? I’m scandalized.” The demon jokes in return as she begins to stack the books back in their places. Sam doesn’t even grace her with an eye roll, which is a tad disheartening. “He told me not to look for him.” They both know who he’s talking about, and the promise Sam’s broken hangs heavy in the air.

~*~

This is their last night at the B ’n’ B before they head off to the next case, the next tentative lead on Dean and Cas. As is their habit by now, they slump in to bed, not even changing their clothes this time. No point, they’ll be up by sunrise anyway. In his sleep, Sam’s tactile. A yearner. He reaches for anything he can grab a hold of, and this time, it’s Meg. She never truly sleeps, only rests, so she’s aware with shock and protest, the second his arms are wrapping around her with vice-like tightness. It’s strange for her, touch without violence. Touch that holds nothing but warmth, and simple connection. This is crazy, this is Sam fucking Winchester holding her close with his breath fanning evenly across her shoulder. She has half a mind to kick him off the mattress and give him a verbal beat down. But there’s something so soothing about having a place by his heart, feeling somewhat safe in vulnerability, that she lets it slide. After all, this is something he needs. Contact. Not like she’s getting anything out of it.

Right?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly I need to work up a better schedule for updates, which I will. The school year is always a little hectic. But I haven't forgotten my stories. If anyone's still reading this, thank you for your patience. :)

~”Sam?! Sam, dammit, where are you?”~

Running with a Winchester is an exhaustion to anyone. Never mind that he’s ruthless, single minded in finding his brother. It saddens Meg, in a way. She knows that every time one of them dies, a promise is made. A promise to move on, find some sense of normality.

It’s never kept. Shocker. So while she also knows that this is no different, it’s… unfortunate.

They’ve left that Podunk town with it’s B ’n’ B and all too knowing elders in the dust, werewolf taken care of. Sam’s getting antsy, she knows. So they dig in to piles upon piles of lore, like they always do, and try to find some kind of lead. And at night, they end up just the same. Inching closer and closer on the mattress until they’re entangled. But in the morning, they shrug it off. He clears his throat, she steals the first shower. And the world keeps turning.

~“Sam c’mon… this isn’t funny.”~

“You miss it?” He asks, a rare attempt to start conversation on his part, late one night as they’re tucking in to a 6 pack on the hood of the impala. “Miss what?” Her eyebrow arches as she cracks open her first beer of the night. “Being…bad, I guess. Hell.” Sam shrugs, like he’s almost regretting asking. “Oh. That old chestnut. Miss is the wrong word.” She leaves it at that. For now. They get thoroughly drunk, and the demon is pretty sure a kiss is shared, burning like liquor and brimstone. He tells her her hair is soft. Fuck.

They’re both screwed. Royally.

In the morning, they’re groggy. Wrapped up in sheets, looking at each other like two nervous teenagers because they don’t know what they’re becoming. What’s between them now. It’s all so messy. Sam Winchester has never liked messy. But for a while, he sinks in to it. Builds on their routine. They hunt, they drink, they sleep…together. He eats his salads, she reads her trashy magazines, they grow comfortable. Her head finds rest on his shoulder, the auxiliary rhythm of her borrowed heart soothes him at night. But for all these tentative gifts, for all he brings out in her, Meg isn’t surprised to come back to their motel one lazy afternoon, to find all traces of him wiped from the slate. Baby is gone from the oil slicked lot, his shaped in the bed is replaced by neatly pressed sheets. 

It feels like betrayal, but she’s too old to linger on it like some lovesick pup. So, she picks up a magazine, hops down on the bed, and reads. 

Having her boots right on the comforter is a small victory. Sam never let her get away with it.

~”Sam wake up…please.”~


End file.
